


Stand Back, Watch it Burn

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Angst, Betrayal, Blood, Hate Sex, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Manipulation, Mind Rape, Mutual Non-Con, No one is innocent, Partner Violence, Past Fuck or Die, Pon Farr, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love, Vulcan Mind Melds, Vulcan!Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: It's only because Washington did the unthinkable that Hamilton survived his lethal mating drive. Now that the crisis is over, if Hamilton has to live in this hell of his now-bondmate's making, he's going to drag his captain into hell right along with him.





	Stand Back, Watch it Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).



Two weeks, three days, five hours, and thirty-nine minutes since Hamilton staggered from Washington’s ready room, their mental bond draws him back— begrudgingly, resentfully, but impossible to ignore. Not when Washington is broadcasting his need all over the ship, invisible to everyone else but so deafeningly loud to Hamilton, the thread of Washington’s mind searing in its intensity.

For a Human, Washington’s mind is— _was,_ before the choice that damned them both— surprisingly well ordered. It was one of the traits Hamilton used to admire, Washington’s reserve and stoicism and steadiness incredibly Vulcan-like. In the rare moments when Hamilton would allow himself any kind of indulgent self-reflection, he so often felt intimidated by his captain, simultaneously more Vulcan and more Human than he could ever achieve.

But where Washington is good, Hamilton is better— because Washington knows nothing about Vulcan mating bonds.

Two weeks, three days, five hours, and eleven minutes ago, knowing the consequences, knowing the risk, Hamilton blocked the bond. Unbearable, to carry Washington’s unwelcome, unasked for presence in his mind. It was too easy to set the delicate gossamer thread that linked them aflame… a fitting end, considering that that unconquerable flames were the yoke to bind them. Such a loss is unthinkable, even for the strength of a Vulcan mind— but for a Human’s, damn near intolerable. He watched as Washington grew desperate and restless, losing focus, his half of the bond screaming for completion even as his face never betrayed a single moment of weakness, at least not to the rest of the crew. But with the heightened senses of his Vulcan heritage— with this _goddamn bond_ — Hamilton could see it. He could _feel_ it.

 _Good,_ he thinks with something akin to vindication, short lived though it is when he crosses the threshold to Washington’s ready room and falters as the door closes. It’s only for a moment that his steps pause and the dread rises, an instinctive response he quickly suppresses. Washington looks up from where he’s studying the desk, his stare wild and unblinking, the barest noise of what could be pain or surprise or any other emotion Hamilton chooses not to share torn from his throat.

Washington is good, but Hamilton is _better._

 _“Leave me,_ Lieutenant,” Washington rasps. His pupils are nearly black, blown wide, even in the low light of the ready room. Across the distance between them, Hamilton sees his hands, pressed firmly flat to the top of the desk, trembling. “Your presence was not requested.”

“The shouting in my head tells me otherwise.”

Washington closes his eyes briefly, a visible battle to keep himself in check. His voice is only marginally more steady when he says slowly, “You know I can’t control it.”

“No,” Hamilton agrees. Casual, unconcerned. “You can’t.”

Dark eyes open, fix him with a wordless plea, a look more vulnerable than Hamilton has ever seen on Washington’s face. No— not _ever;_ he’s only seen this level of uncertain, naked desperation from his captain once before, when Hamilton was in this very room and—

 _“Please,”_ Washington begs. Quiet. Almost ashamed. “I— I need your assistance. I don’t know what to do to stop this.”

“There is no _stopping_ _,”_ Hamilton hisses, stalking toward the desk, where Washington still sits, statue like, except for the tremor only Hamilton would ever be able to notice. “There is no _end_ _._ This is our _life_ now, sir.”

“It doesn’t have to be our life,” Washington protests, struggling to his feet. “We could—”

“What, be gentle?” Hamilton interrupts, a sneer spreading across his face, but even in the satisfaction of Washington’s minute recoil it sits hollow, mask-like. “Be _mates?_  You don’t know a fucking thing.”

Washington’s expression shutters closed, and Hamilton ruthlessly seizes the sympathy— the potential regret— that rises unbidden in him before it can fully manifest, because Washington doesn’t _deserve_ it, not after he—

“I know this isn’t what you wanted. I’m _sorry,”_ Washington says, _again_ _,_ just like all the other times he’s said it before— and still, Hamilton refuses to listen. Refuses to give his captain any ground. “I’m sorry I keep hurting you. But this is _insanity,_ Alexander, and I will not see you hurt yourself.”

The fury rises, hot and helpless and uncontrollable, Vulcan strength fueling him when he shoves Washington’s chest. He’s broad and strong, for a Human— but for all Hamilton’s slenderness, he is _Vulcan_ _,_ and Washington moves so easily. “What are you going to do, _force_ me?” he snarls, and the sick, gutted look on Washington’s face doesn’t slow him down. “You gave up the fucking right to care when you _raped me_ _._ You get _no_ say.”

A shadow of the fires of pon farr roars in his blood, and he fists a hand in Washington’s uniform, holding him fast, his other hand reaching for his temple. Washington fights ineffectively to escape even while Hamilton molds himself into Washington’s sturdy frame, pulling him closer, using him to trap his own body against the desk, even as Washington’s face twists in horrified realization. “Alexander, _stop_ —”

Hamilton presses his fingers, rough and careless, to Washington’s meld points, opening the bond to a heated whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He exerts pressure, follows the singed paths in Washington’s mind, tugging and twisting the threads— and then Washington’s hands are on him, pulling in his hair, baring his neck. Another tweak, and Washington’s teeth mark a bruise into his throat. Another tug, and _another,_ and then Washington seizes his hips, tight and forceful. Revulsion and something too much like fear settle in his gut but he locks it down, slamming an impenetrable wall around every damnable, shameful emotion, separating himself from the echoes of Washington’s silent screams as the bond stretches thin and charred between them.

There is only his body, and his body can endure pain. It can endure Washington manhandling him, turning him in place and slamming him over the desk so hard that his head hits the cold metal. It can endure Washington’s broad hand pinning him down by the neck, his other hand tearing at Hamilton’s pants, jerking them to his knees. It can endure the chill air on his skin, the scrape of cloth as Washington fumbles to free his own cock—

_(Because he’s endured this before, only more gentle and that was worse, Washington’s sorrow etched into every worn line of his face, his guilt, his grief as he spread Hamilton open and fucked inside, unspoken apologies buzzing between them, Washington holding fast to his wrist and bending his head to brush Hamilton’s fingertips on his temple and Hamilton was drowning in fire and pain and the taste of death on his lips and he would have borne such suffering again and again if only Washington had let him go, but he couldn’t say no—)_

—and even the menacing line of Washington’s length nudging against him, hot and hard and too close, he can endure. There’s an uncertain moment where Washington pauses, his breath warm but ragged on Hamilton’s neck, noticeable tremors wracking his frame. And he feels the same struggle mirrored in their minds, joined as they are, as torn asunder as Hamilton has tried to make them, Washington fighting for control… and Hamilton nearly falters.

Nearly.

 _You gave up the fucking right to care,_ he hears again, his own words, his own bitterness, sees the memory of Washington’s earnest, sickened face murmuring meaningless, useless platitudes— and then he yanks on the bond with all his mental strength, Washington’s resistance crumbling like dust, and Washington drives forward in a rough thrust, Hamilton’s scream ringing only in the void between their minds. He is too proud to make a sound, swallowing his gasps of agony as Washington pounds into him, mindless and brutal.

Hamilton’s vision blurs with stinging, unshed tears, his hands stretched out before him, grasping at nothing. But still he holds tight, seizing on the bond even as it immolates them, as Washington’s rhythm increases to a fever pitch and his nails dig into Hamilton’s skin as he comes with a guttural groan, teeth sinking into his shoulder.

Hamilton is hard. Uncomfortably, undoubtedly hard— but he ignores it. Draws upon years of discipline and slows his harsh breathing until his body relaxes and only the tense lump in his throat remains. And then— he closes his eyes. Mentally loosens his grip and watches the ashes scatter on the howling wind.

The moment that his hold is gone is unmistakable under an abrupt wave of devastation that would threaten to pull him under if he hadn’t already reinforced his shields, and the wounded, fractured, _“No,”_ of terrified disbelief from behind him is equally telling. Washington is anything but gentle as he pulls out, his hands shaking violently where they rest for only a scant few seconds on Hamilton’s hips to steady them both— and then his touch is absent, and Hamilton breathes easier.

Washington staggers back. Enough room for Hamilton to grab his pants, pull them up without an outward grimace. _Pain is of the body,_ he recites silently, every mantra he’s ever known locking together piece by piece to protect him. When he finally turns to face Washington, his own face is devoid of any emotion.

Washington looks as if he’s in the throes of a nightmare, his eyes dazed and haunted, arms curled around his torso as if trying to contain himself from spilling onto the floor. “How— how could you _do this?”_ he asks, an anguished, pained voice smaller than Hamilton has ever heard.

Without a stumble in his step, Hamilton bridges the space between them. Takes Washington’s spent cock in hand, slick with blood and come, and tucks him away. It’s the first time he’s ever seen it— the first time he’s ever _touched_ it— and he feels—

He feels _nothing._

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

He turns on his heel, and the muffled thud of Washington’s knees hitting the deck is lost in the slide of the ready room door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this during Nano 2017— about nine months later, here we are. Guess it needed to happen in its own time. :)
> 
> (Thank you to all my friends and readers for the support and patience; it's more appreciated than you will ever know.)


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